Hold On

Got an aarp solicitation in the mail the other day.
I will not capitalize the letters.
No thanks.
Very much. I'm good.
I Am Good.
So
Good.
So much fun being on the widowed hit list -
Surely they aren't aware of my rollicking early middle-aged WidowFest.

Sounds like an ale.

WidowFest.

Yes.
Come on board.
SUCH
a blast. I'm like...
The Shark Boat.

For example, tonight.
No golf carts for me, or life-alert.
Nope.
Instead, my girl, today dressed as Annie for a Halloween Fair, went off on a sleep-over with family.
And I was left, Solo.
Face-paint still on,
hand tattoo (sweetly applied by a fifth grade boy)
of pink-skulls-and-all that read,
Party Girl,
with nowhere to go.

Again, a spontaneous moment of down-time-that-should-be-up-time! leaves no time for coupled friends and tired moms to line up their own escapes.
And.

That's it.

Just,
And.

It's OK. It is.
But are they all secretly dining out with other happy
pairs
or are they truly exhausted and bed bound.
Just curious.
I'll never know.
Easy to stay in with company.
Must be.
Hell, I'd do it.

Took myself to a movie, 12 Years a Slave which my iphone so helpfully auto-corrected in a text to my brother as:
12 Years of Solace.

For Real.

It said that.

Best laugh of the day as I sipped my wine and snacked on appetizers at a restaurant counter -
warmed by a fire, face-paint and tattoo unnoticed, book in hand,
Aloof Bartender,
Whiter Shade of Pale moaning in the foreground.

And then I get home and am greeted by Cheryl Strayed's
Sugar Something.
A gift in the mail from a dear friend and it's all I can do to get past the inside cover that shouts inspirational I CAN DO IT thoughts.

WALK WITHOUT A STICK INTO THE DARKEST WOODS.

Wow.
Been there done that.
Warrior Woman Here.
Seriously.
Shark Boat, remember?
Phoenix rising up from the ashes of destruction?

HI.

No Stick Here.
No Oprah either.

I'm all for the inspiration.
In fact, some have said I embody it myself.
But I'd rather go on a cattle drive any day.
Bright, dusty sun, hoof beats that trip, startle and soothe.
Yuck it up with a Marlboro Man.

Leave those dark woods behind.
Sing it:
Hold.
On.

Muse.

Lily likes the book.

Seriously.
(Even I can mimic her teenage confidence.)

Proudly delivered it to her school's librarian who accepted it with
kind yet quiet reserve.
Ouch.
The two of us had secretly envisioned it differently:
Horns, smiles, flags and fanfare...
But when we returned last week,
There
It
Was,
Lovingly placed on top of the shelves.
Eye level for just her size.
Almost Five Size.
Right next to the other books with now weathered pages.

Displayed.
Prominently.
Enveloped in the crinkly-plastic-I've-known-since-I-was-her-age,
Yellow-K-On-The-Binding.
Facing-Out-Like-It'd-Been-There-For-Years.
Gulp. Smile. Quick Inhale.
There
It
Was.

Spotting it immediately, she took it down ,
Positioned it on her lap,
Thumbed through its pages -
She knows the words.
Her new old friend.

And
That,
Was
All
I Wanted.

She's read it, 'teacher style', to her buddy William -
The two of them huddled under a cafe table.
Gave me a sweet weep inside.
The book for him as well.

She's read it to others, to her animals, her dolls.
Even sings the words.
Belts them out.
Authored her own book too, in fact,
"For All The Kids Whose Dads Have Died",
She Announces to The Crowd.

And with that, she owns it.

The questions are changing.
So much she wants to know.
I have been waiting/anticipating.
Wondering, fearing, these
Conversations.
Simpler answers no longer sufficient.
Hard material to tackle, harder to digest.
Curiosity that can't wait til tomorrow, nor should it.
With that I respond as best I can -
Painful details, researched, rehearsed,
gently shared
morning, noon and night.

Repeat.

But she's allowing it in, thinking it through.
Upset and all.
Like medicine, she takes it,
but no reward.
Ever.

Strong Child, Brave Girl.

How I wish the lesson could have come later.

But so much support surrounds us.
The book party was the sweetest of commemorations.
Crowded room full of love
Everyone there for the three of us.
We All Three.
As a close friend said,
Alan would be proud of his girls.

How comforting it was to hear those words.

Lily even signed books upon request,
Sidled up next to me,
her name next to mine.
Bubble letters, no less, another friend noted.
Her handwriting already nicer than Alan's...

But she only signs sometimes.

Oh child of mine.
How she processes things.
Super-feeler,lovergirl,
Fierce and exuberant passionate liver.
Welcomes me home nightly, bikini clad, uke in hand.
Chewing gum campaigner,TV time angler,
Loose tooth yearner, twenty stories a night insister.
Taking it all in lifer.
Inspirer and wear-me-outer.

Little girl,
grown-up
world.